


Peace and Quiet Isn't Your Style

by bellam_w



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Mickey deserves good things, Misunderstandings, Yevgeny and Ian talk about applesauce, and each other, canonical swearing/language, except Mickey, idk what this is, just 3000+ words of bashing Ian's siblings, mickey and ian deserve all the good things, no one listens to Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 13:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12936327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellam_w/pseuds/bellam_w
Summary: Ian talks. He talks so much that sometimes Mickey zones out and can only reply with well-timed nods and noises of interest. But whenever Mickey brings it up to the Gallaghers, they're adamant that Ian is quiet, Ian is a great lister and, no, Ian doesn't talk a lot at all.Maybe all it took was for someone to listen.(the teen and up rating is there purely for language reasons)





	Peace and Quiet Isn't Your Style

**Author's Note:**

> i'm really shit at summaries and tagging so if you got this far, well done!
> 
> I wrote this a couple months back and, like the previous few fics I've posted, I've read through it so many times I know what's coming next, it's the only way I can be truly confident (or as confident as I'm going to be) in my works.  
> If you see any mistakes that need pointing out, just drop a comment and I'll get right on to it.
> 
> If you comment, I'll try my best to respond to it!

Mickey loved everything about Ian. He loved the gentle ginger curls that rested on his head, the soft, burnt red coloured stubble that coated his chin every few days, the freckles that kissed his nose, forehead and cheeks, the green of his eyes that was too beautiful for the mere words of the English language. He also loved how kind and caring Ian was, how delicate he was with Yevgeny, how patient he was with Mickey, how loving he was to his siblings. He also loved the way Ian would wake up early on Mickey’s birthday and on Valentine’s Day and Father’s Day to make Mickey’s favourite pancakes with Yev, serving them to Mickey with coffee and orange juice for breakfast in bed.

Mickey just really loved Ian.

But, there were things about Ian that Mickey hadn’t loved straight away. Like how clingy Ian was; it was something that he detested when they were fuckbuddies with feelings, but he wouldn’t change it for the world. Mickey didn’t know enough words to describe how loved and happy and safe he felt when he awoke to Ian’s limbs tangled around him or when Ian flopped part of himself over Mickey’s body as they lounged on the couch. Mickey also learned to love how involved Ian was with Yev. He’d hated it at first, hated seeing the baby perched on Ian’s hip or draped on his chest with his tiny face in Ian’s neck. Mickey knew that it all came from the fact that Svetlana and Yev were the reason that he and Ian had some of their biggest bumps. But now, Mickey loved when he and Ian would lay in bed with a wriggling Yev between them, babbling his toddler words as he reached for Ian’s hair or Mickey’s nose.

One… trait… of Ian’s that took the longest to adjust to was how fucking talkative the kid was. He’d stand at the stove in the empty Gallagher house, cooking dinner, and he’d drawl on and on. Mickey listened, of course, replied at the appropriate times, but that’s because he’d trained himself to do it. If Ian could find an excuse to talk, which he always did, Mickey would listen. He was his boyfriend, what else was he supposed to do?

Mickey was coming down the stairs, leaving Ian in the shower. “Jesus, he never shuts up”, he muttered, partly to Fiona where she stood by the coffee pot, partly to himself. He didn’t think to pick up on or wait for a reply, just wandered over to the mug cupboard and grabbed one down. It was one Ian had declared _Mickey’s_ by scrawling his name across it in sharpie, letting it dry before setting it in the cupboard with the other mugs with the exact same sentiment. Each sibling, and now Mickey, had a white-ish mug with their name scribbled on it in Ian’s handwriting, all lined up on the bottom shelf of the cupboard. Why had he never seen anyone use them before?

“Ian?”, Fiona asked incredulously. She took in Mickey’s confused expression as he stood next to her to fill his cup. “Ian never shuts up?”, she asked again, a laugh leaving her body. “No, Mickey, Ian’s so quiet. Sure he’s not drunk or something? That’s the only time he’s ever talkative”, Fiona told him, smiling happily before walking away, disappearing behind the corner of the kitchen stairs.

Was Fiona deaf?

All Ian ever did was talk. Be it about Mickey, embarrassingly enough, or Yevgeny or the colour he’d paint their kitchen when they got their own place (“Can we have it red, Mick? It’d look so pretty”) or giving a commentary on the film he and Mickey had watched just the night before. It wouldn’t surprise Mickey if Ian spoke to himself, keeping little conversations running with himself – he talked enough for it to be believable.

Maybe he does it to fill the silence. Ian had never known silence, not even when every single one of his siblings was asleep. The neighbourhood was still alive with sirens and shouts and punches and shots. They truly lived in the city that never slept, something that had seemed to have polarizing effects on Ian and Mickey.

Where Ian spoke constantly, Mickey wasn’t afraid of silence or being alone. Maybe it was something to do with having privacy, his own room. It made him used to his own company and he didn’t mind his own silence.

So, maybe Ian was filling the silence that Mickey created when it was just the two of them. Fiona’s words made him think; Ian never really spoke all that much when his siblings were in the room. He only ever did if he and Mickey were cuddled on the couch together or slouched with their heads on each other’s shoulders at the kitchen table – Ian would tell Mickey whatever that moment’s spiel was and he’d do it quietly, only for Mickey.

“Ian”, Mickey had said a few moments after Ian had trailed himself off one of his tangents, “You don’t have to talk”, Mickey said quietly, simply, before turning his attention back to the TV show that had started up again after an ad-break.

“Oh”, Ian muttered, sounding surprised, “Okay”, he whispered, taking a few moments before he settled back down, allowing Mickey to lean on him and into him.

   ______________________________________________________________________________

The second time it was mentioned, it was Debbie. “What’s up?”, she’d asked him as he came through the door, stomping into the living room angrily. “Mickey?”, she pressed.

“Don’t, Gallagher”, he huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Mickey”, Debbie said again, still looking straight at him, gaze turning accusative.

“Tired. Your brother didn’t shut up on the way to work”, he huffed, unwrapping his scarf and taking off his thick coat.

“Ian?”, Debbie snorted, “Ian’s always quiet. Must’ve pissed him off or somethin’”, she shrugged.

And, wow, thanks, Debs. Just the thoughts Mickey wanted circling his head. He didn’t want to be thinking of a pissed off Ian and not being able to see him until 10pm. Stupid work shifts. Stupid Debbie. Stupid Ian.

The old Mickey would’ve run off, gone to his makeshift shooting range and shot up the doll he’d stuck at the end of the room or he’d have drunk enough to drink Svetlana under the table. But that was the old Mickey, cold, violent, old Mickey.

Instead, Mickey took himself off for a shower, washing quickly in the limited hot water that he was surprised was even around that late on into the evening. He stood for a few minutes once his hair and body were clean, the shower already jutting like it did before the water snapped and shifted to ice cold.

The cold stream had just kicked in as Mickey reached to switch the dial. He took a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and wandered into the bedroom. The boy moved on auto-pilot as he dug around for a pair of boxers and one of Ian’s shirts. Both items were pulled on easily, hair dripping enough to stain the shoulders of the shirt with drops of water.

Mickey went back downstairs to rifle through his coat pockets for a lighter and his packet of smokes. After only the latter showed up, he huffed and dragged himself into the empty kitchen, grabbing a beer, before walking back up to the room.

Luckily, there was a lighter on the windowsill, presumably one of Ian’s. He grabbed it, opening his beer once he’d taken it. Once his cigarette was lit, he laid back against the wall, exhaling the smoke into the dark room lazily.

Mickey awoke to jostling next to him, the small mattress dipping. “Shit, sorry”, Ian whispered. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be in soon”, he smiled, reaching his hand to rest it on the side of Mickey’s face.

True to word, Ian came back, smelling minty, as Mickey drifted around in the fuzzy space of in between awake and asleep. The older boy smiled as Ian slipped an arm around his waist, holding him close. “How was work?”, Mickey asked sleepily, leaning back into Ian.

“Okay, couple’a rude fucks, but other than that…”, he trailed off, yawning. “Long night, though”, he huffed, “There was this one guy who ordered…”, and with that, Ian had kicked off into a whispered story, telling Mickey how one customer always seemed to find something wrong with his order.

“Go to sleep, Ian”, Mickey sighed, shutting his eyes.

“Oh, sorry”, Ian said sheepishly.

It wasn’t that Mickey didn’t like Ian’s stories or his incessant talking, because he did. He just didn’t like knowing that Ian was changing himself to fit Mickey better. Mickey wanted Ian, not Ian adapted for him. If that meant sitting in silence a lot of the time, then so be it.

   ______________________________________________________________________________

The third time someone mentioned it, it was Lip.

Mickey had brought Yev to the Gallaghers’. Ian wanted to see him and Mickey and Mickey wanted out of the Milkovich house. It was a happy compromise, and Svetlana was happy for the break in her mothering duties.

“Man, it must be quiet in your house”, Lip breathed out a laugh. Mickey was sat on the couch, waiting for Ian to finish showering. Yev was sat on his lap, pulling tattooed fingers into his mouth or wrapping his own tiny fingers around them. “Never met a kid as quiet as him”, he smiled at the infant as his blue eyes looked up to Lip, grinning before turning his attention back to his father’s fingers.

“When your brother shuts up, you could hear a pin drop”, Mickey laughed, Yev squealing happily as he was rocked slightly by the movement.

“Ian?”, Lip asked, suddenly confused, “Ian’s always quiet, Mickey”, he scoffed. Mickey didn’t get a chance to reply because Ian himself came down the stairs, causing Yev to squeal again, clapping his stubby baby hands repeatedly as the redhead walked over to him, arms out to pick him up.

“My man, my man, my man!”, Ian chanted as he swooped the kid into his arms, “Oof, you’re gettin’ big!”, he exclaimed, bending down to press a kiss to the top of Mickey’s head. In return, the older boy squeezed Ian’s thigh lovingly.

“You’re gross”, Lip scowled, “I’m out”, he declared, already scrambling himself up from the sofa.

Mickey watched, cheeks aching from smiling, as Ian sat on the couch, laid back and pulled Yev on top of him. He and the baby started talking. Well, talking and babbling. “You know, Yev, I’m very glad we hold the same opinion on applesauce. Your daddy doesn’t though, does he? No, it’s very bizarre. Honestly, Yev, I thought I was better at pickin’. Why did I pick a man that won’t share applesauce with us?”, Ian asked the small boy seriously. Yev babbled something, thwacking his teeny fists on Ian’s chest giddily. “Hmmm”, the teenager hummed speculatively, “I guess you do have a point, it is more for us, isn’t it?”, he nodded, rubbing the blond fluff on the top of Yev’s head.

Ian only turned to Mickey once Yev had fallen asleep on his chest, curling into the soft looking t-shirt that Ian was wearing, tucking his head under his chin. Lucky shit. “How was your day?”, Ian asked, “Missed you”, he smiled softly.

“Fine, yeah”, Mickey nodded, standing to come and sit on the sofa with Ian, rather than in the armchair. “Mostly just with Yev, Lana and Nika were Upstairs”, he said, lifting Ian’s legs to rest in his lap. “Yours?”, he asked.

And, just like always, Ian launched into a pointless tale. He used fifteen minutes to say something that could’ve been said in fifteen seconds. He always dragged himself on tangents, firing into other stories or ideas or jokes that left them both either chuckling at the lameness or balled up with stomach pains from how hard they were laughing.

But this wasn’t Ian, was it? No. Ian was quiet, reserved, listened rather than said.

“Ian, shut up”, Mickey huffed before he’d really taken time to think through what he was going to say. “Just…”, he tried to rectify and re-word his words. “Shut up”, he settled with again.

Ian looked hurt, why wouldn’t he. He was about to say something but Mickey cut him off with, “You don’t need to talk to fill the silence, I’m happy to just sit with you and not talk. It doesn’t bother me. ‘s long as you’re there”, he said quietly.

“Okay”, Ian whispered, dropping his head to train his eyes on Yev’s sleeping face so that Mickey wouldn’t see the way his eyes slowly blew out with redness, the bloodshot eyes burning with tears he fought away.

   ______________________________________________________________________________

Mickey had gone ‘home’ that night, one of the only nights he’d spent away from Ian and the Gallagher house in the past few months. He’d taken Yev, dropped a kiss to Ian’s lips, let it deepen briefly, and left for the Milkovich house.

He’d returned for breakfast, though, bringing a round of coffees that he’d bought with money that he’d made by stealing some of the ‘to-be-sold’ weed from the house and selling it on the way, shoving the change into the squirrel fund pot. “Delivery!”, he called as he shoved his way into the house, placing the coffee carriers down on the kitchen table just as Fiona walked over with the plates of food, quickly fixing one for Mickey.

Mickey sat next to Ian, wrapping a hand around the top of his head and using it to pull Ian in to press a kiss to his freckly cheek. “Mornin’”, he smiled, pressing another kiss to his temple. Ian’s replying smile was weak, worrying Mickey, but he brushed it off until later. He figured that it’d be best to ask alone, rather than forcing Ian to spread his secrets to his entire family over French toast.

“Hey, Ian?”, Carl started, chewing through a bite of toast, “Why were you talkin’ to yourself last night?”, he asked, reaching for his hot chocolate that Mickey had brought for him.

Mickey looked over to Ian, ready to tease him, but stopped himself short. Ian looked embarrassed, and not in the cocky way that he was when someone mentioned a hickey or when one of Mickey’s siblings pointed out that their brother was walking funny.

His cheeks were red, spreading right back to his hairline. The tips of his ears were tainted, too, flooding up from his neck. “Uh, no reason”, Ian choked out, ducking his head to avoid the humorous, judging looks from his siblings.

“I’m talkin’ full fuckin’ conversation here, guys”, Carl laughed, clearly blind to Ian’s humiliation. “Had a leisurely chat as he was gettin’ dressed after his shower”, he snorted.

Everyone else laughed, ignoring or not noticing Ian when he tried to brush them off. “Not that funny, guys”, he’d said, voice grumbling. Mickey knew that, even over the laughter, Ian had spoken loud enough to be heard at the other end of the table.

“Ay!”, Mickey snapped, voice not holding as much malice as his snaps usually did, “Lay off, a’ight?”, he said, raising his eyebrows slightly. He dropped a hand to hold Ian’s on the redhead’s lap, the younger boy accepting quickly enough.

And here Mickey was thinking that he’d been joking when he made the joke to himself about Ian talking to himself. “Oh, fuck”, he muttered, raising a hand to pinch across his forehead regretfully.

It had all clicked, just like that.

“What’s up, Mickey?”, Debbie asked, lowering the takeaway cup from her mouth. “Everythin’ okay?”, she asked sweetly.

“I’m sorry”, he muttered to Ian, completely ignoring the other redhead at the table. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh”, he continued, voice at normal volume again. “You only wanted to talk, I shouldn’t have told you to shut up”, he explained, squeezing Ian’s fingers again.

Ian smiled softly, looking like he was about to say something. Instead, Fiona cut him off, completely oblivious to the fact that she had. “We told you already, Mickey. Ian’s quiet”, she said dismissively, as if she had any say in their discussion or it’s end.

“Yeah, Mickey. Ian’s a great listener, he just doesn’t talk much”, Debbie smiled, looking like she felt helpful for giving her input. Lip, Fiona and Carl nodded in agreement, all looking at Mickey instead of Ian.

Now, Ian Gallagher wasn’t the kind of teenager you describe as small. He brushed six-foot-tall, had broad shoulders and a loud voice. His bright hair demanded attention in a room, seconded only by his bright smile and never-ending chain of sentences and stories.

But, in that moment, Mickey had never seen someone look smaller than Ian did then. His fucking baby looked bigger.

The redhead shrunk back slightly, leaning against Mickey’s shoulder as he picked at his food. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even attempt to start a sentence. Ian just leaned against Mickey, dropped his head to the older boy’s shoulder once he’d finished eating, and held the tattooed hand beneath the table.

It stayed that way until the end of breakfast, right up until Fiona had ushered everyone away so she could clean the kitchen. Ian was yet to speak again when Mickey came to the conclusion that Ian was more comfortable talking to Mickey about their relationship without his siblings around. “You good, Gallagher?”, Mickey asked, bringing his coffee cup to his mouth.

Ian turned his head, about to reply, when Fiona spoke up… again. “Yeah, actually, I am. The new job’s good, it’s nice to have stable hours, y’know? I’m spendin’ more time with Vee and kids. It’s nice to just sit and have a good chat, feels like I don’t even know my own siblings lately”, she laughed, only turning around on her last sentence. She was greeted by the sight of Mickey looking down at Ian, a thumb running over his cheek softly. “Oh”, Fiona muttered, “You were asking Ian”, she said dumbly.

“’m okay”, Ian shrugged nonchalantly.

“C’mon, Gallagher, no stories?”, Mickey asked with a wink, causing Ian’s award-winning smile to bounce back into its rightful place.

“Mickey, we-”, Fiona started, cutting off Ian yet again.

“We’re going upstairs so we can actually have a conversation rather than having different members of your family tellin’ me you’re a fuckin’ mute every 5 god damn seconds”, Mickey huffed, taking Ian’s hand gently and leading him to the stairs, tugging him up them.

“Don’t ever let me tell you to shut up, okay?”, Mickey said as he pushed Ian towards the bed, eliciting a loud laugh from Ian, “If I do, don’t listen to me. I don’t like you quiet”, he smiled at the younger boy as he shuffled to the other side of the bed, making room for Mickey to lay next to him.

They ended up laying in a happy silence, ironically enough. “You don’t have to be quiet”, Mickey assured him, reaching down to take his hand.

“You’re right, the quiet is nice”, Ian smiled, letting his eyes fall on Mickey.

“Prefer your voice”, Mickey assured. He thought for a moment, before turning his head to look at Ian. “Why do they think you’re so quiet?”, he asked.

“They don’t listen to me”, Ian shrugged. “Always talk over me, always someone more important”, he muttered into the quiet of the room.

“No one’s more important than you, Ian”, Mickey breathed, squeezing his fingers around Ian’s.

“Fiona’s in charge, Lip’s the smartest, Debbie’s the baby sister we all protect, Carl’s the borderline psychopath, Liam’s the babbly toddler…”, Ian trailed off. “I’m the middle kid, second oldest brother, nothing special”, he shrugged again.

“They’re dumb”, Mickey decided.

“They’ll say they talk to me, but they just vent all their problems and then fuck off before I can get the start of my first fuckin’ sentence in. They don’t give me a choice but be quiet”, he said quietly, hurt seeping through his voice.

“You’ve never gotta be quiet around me, Ian”, Mickey assured.

Because Mickey loved Ian. He loved everything about Ian. Be it the ginger curls or the patience he had or the pancakes he made or the fact that he never shut the fuck up around Mickey. Mickey loved Ian and Ian loved Mickey and that’s all they’d ever need. They had each other and they had Yev and Svet and Mandy so fuck the Gallaghers and their ignorance. Ian had other people that listened and cared and tried.

Because Ian was loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Leaving comments and kudos gives me more confidence posting more and more works (as dumb as it sounds).


End file.
